


i still want you to believe in infinity

by sweetwinegift



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M, this is literally just 6000 words of pierre gay panicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 13:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16893435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetwinegift/pseuds/sweetwinegift
Summary: What’s worse, he wonders: ruining everything he and Nico have spent four years building, or living the rest of his life choking half to death on his own feelings?





	i still want you to believe in infinity

**Author's Note:**

> @ me stop writing the exact same fic of these two dumbasses getting together OVER AND OVER AGAIN (this was gonna be a cool fun established relationship fic but after about 200 words i decided i like Pining (tm) too much) and also i'm very tired and haven't edited this so pls ignore any typos i'll fix them l8r
> 
> title from 'you think i think i sound like god' by amy shark (yes i'm always giving my girl that promo, go stream love monster on spotify xx) 
> 
> as per usual none of this is actually real

** i still want you to believe in infinity **

 

-

 

London is as magical as ever, and then they lose their opening match. It’s far from an impossible situation- there are, after all, still two matches they can win to make it into the semi-finals- but there’s a heavy, dark cloud over the hotel room now. Both Pierre and Nico are uncomfortably aware of the fact that they’ve never once qualified.

Pierre, for possibly the first time in his life, can’t think of anything to say. He’s sitting on his bed, his chin resting on his knees and his hands clasped together around his shins, and he can’t decide who he wants to hit more: Marach and Pavic, or Nico.

He and Nico should’ve retired after Nico fell. Pierre hadn’t outright said so, but he’d wanted to, and he knows Nico knows that. Every time Pierre had tried to express any small amount of concern, Nico had shot him a _look_ and informed him they were finishing the match. He’s so stubborn sometimes that it hurts Pierre.

Still, it’s hard to want to hit Nico when he’s in this state, and when Pierre’s so blinded by worry. Nico, right now, is looking incredibly uncomfortable; his ankle is elevated, and he’s leaning forward to ice it even as he holds more ice to his bruised back. The pained expression on his face is making Pierre wince.

“Let me,” says Pierre softly, unfolding himself and moving onto Nico’s bed, settling in behind him. He gently pries Nico’s fingers from the icepack, careful not to knock against Nico’s aching back, and starts holding it there with enough pressure as he thinks he can without hurting Nico even more. “Five more minutes, yeah?”

Nico bends his knee so he can move his ankle closer, and straightens up. “Five minutes,” he agrees, nodding. They’re close enough that his hair tickles against Pierre’s mouth. Pierre doesn’t mind.

With his free hand, Pierre starts lightly massaging between Nico’s shoulder blades. He’s tense, but so is Pierre, so that’s hardly anything to worry about. “We can withdraw,” says Pierre, knowing it’s a conversation they have to have. He continues, ignoring the breathy sounds his movements are drawing out of Nico. “It’s not… Nico, a title isn’t worth _breaking yourself_ for.”

“I’m fine,” says Nico, quickly enough that Pierre knows it’s a lie. Pierre would’ve known regardless, though; he knows Nico too well to not. “And this isn’t _just a title_.”

Pierre sighs. “Nico,” he says.

Nico twists his neck to meet Pierre’s gaze. “Pierre,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that keeps Pierre from pushing. It’s not too hard to stop; Pierre wants this, too. Nico snorts. “We’ve only got two more matches. I think I can handle that.”

“Four,” corrects Pierre, almost automatically. _One_ of them has to have the faith, and clearly Nico is in no condition to believe in their ability to make it out of the group stage. They’ve lost here so many times that maybe Pierre’s confidence should’ve wavered by now, but he refuses to let it go; he wants to believe, and he wants Nico to believe, too. Until he can make that happen, he’ll have enough certainty for the both of them. “We’re winning this whole damn thing.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Nico says, “Yeah, we are.” He leans back a little until his head is resting on Pierre’s chest, and Pierre has to focus on his own breathing as Nico lets out a laugh and Pierre can feel it all over. “We’re always kind of useless here, aren’t we?”

They are, but Pierre doesn’t say that. “We’re too busy winning everything else,” is what he does say.

“Not the Australian Open,” counters Nico.

Pierre smiles a little. “Not _yet_.”

 

-

 

After their run of bad luck in this tournament, and after an unprecedented three good wins in a row, it should probably be enough for them just to make it to the final. It isn’t, though; Pierre’s not sure he’s ever felt this bad about a loss.

Well, maybe in Melbourne, but that was almost four years ago. Pierre’s over it- mostly.

They’re in the locker room after the trophy ceremony, and he’s grateful for the fact that it’s private, that they don’t have to live through this moment with Bryan and Sock as witnesses. They’d been so _close_ , and Pierre can’t stand it.

Nico’s sitting with a towel tied around his waist and another wrapped around his neck; Pierre hasn’t even showered yet, has been too busy contemplating the benefits of immediate retirement. Not really, but he’s close. He’s starting to think playing and losing might be worse than not playing at all.

He knows he’s being selfish, and that he and Nico are beyond lucky to be doing what they love- and doing it well- but he’s pretty sure this is a hard enough loss for it to justify a few minutes of wallowing on his part.

The situation is clearly dire, because Pierre hasn’t even stopped and taken a moment to surreptitiously stare at Nico’s bare chest.

“It’s been a good week,” says Nico, finally breaking the silence. He sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself of this fact than he is trying to convince Pierre. “A really good week.”

Pierre nods. “Better than last year,” he adds.

Nico snorts. “And the year before that, and the year before that.”

He has a point. Their previous London campaigns have been _hopeless_. Still, it’s heavy in Pierre’s mind that they probably wouldn’t have even qualified this year if not for the saving grace of their championship run at Roland-Garros. They’d played through this tournament on borrowed time; every win had been a pleasant surprise, but that doesn’t mean the loss hurts any less.

“There’s still the Davis Cup,” he says, trying not to sound too miserable about it. He wants to defend their title next weekend- they all do- but it’s an uphill battle with half the usual suspects insisting they don’t want to play. At this rate they’ll be playing _him_ in the singles, which is more than a little alarming.

It’s intimidating, knowing that half of Croatia’s team had been in London this week, even if Cilic and Pavic hadn’t made it out of their groups and Coric had only been here as an alternate.

Nico doesn’t answer. He makes a vague, noncommittal grunt and tosses Pierre the towel that’s been draped loosely around his neck like a scarf. “Shower,” he orders. “Then we’ll go drink away our sorrows.”

 _There’s_ an idea. The towel hits Pierre in the face, and he smirks as he pulls it down. “Fine,” he says. “But you’re paying.”

Everything’s okay, then, because as he heads into the shower he _does_ stop to sneak a glance at Nico in all his shirtless glory.

 

-

 

“This love affair?” blurts out Pierre, not even thinking about what he’s saying.

It’s not like this interview can get anymore disastrous than it already is, though. Pierre usually watches over their interviews for weeks after they’re posted, just to see how embarrassingly obviously in love with Nico he is, but he’s not sure he’ll even be able to sit through this one; Nico had cracked a joke about them being married, and now Pierre’s heart is in his throat and he hasn’t been able to focus since.

A _joke_ , he tells himself. It’s just a joke, but there’s a part of him that wishes it wasn’t.

The interview hasn’t been _all_ bad, he supposes. Nico had announced he wants to still be playing by Tokyo in 2020, which fills Pierre with so much hope he feels like he might choke on it. This is news to Pierre; whenever he tries to hesitantly approach the topic of Nico’s eventual retirement, Nico finds a way to avoid the question entirely.

The thought of starting over without Nico is terrifying, and Pierre knows it’s selfish, but he wants to keep Nico for as long as he can.

Nico’s laughing at Pierre’s words, and so is the interviewer, and Pierre has to stop himself from pointing out that Nico might have been joking but he certainly isn’t. If it was up to him, this _would_ be a love affair. Saying so, he supposes, would make for some fun headlines: _This French Tennis Star You’ve Never Heard Of Declares Love For Shocked Doubles Partner._ Pierre thinks he’d rather never pick up a racquet again.

Still, since there’s no digging himself out of this hole, he doesn’t stop there. “We love each other, yes,” he continues, and he can’t help the small smile he feels tugging at his lips, can’t help but drape an arm across Nico’s shoulder. He’s desperate for any physical contact, and if this is all he’s going to get, he’s more than happy to take it.

Nico’s looking at him with an inscrutable expression as he studies Pierre’s face. Pierre almost can’t breathe, but he’s looking back, and he feels an inexplicable warmth spread over his entire body as Nico’s features soften into the smile he only ever uses with Pierre.

If Pierre had thought his heart was in his throat before, it’s now threatening to spill out of his mouth in the form of words he knows he won’t be able to take back. What’s worse, he wonders: ruining everything he and Nico have spent four years building, or living the rest of his life choking half to death on his own feelings?

The poor interviewer doesn’t seem to know what’s going on, and honestly, neither does Pierre.

 

-

 

Pierre and Nico win the doubles rubber- of course they do, because they have to, and because Pierre’s not certain he wouldn’t just snap if they lost to fucking Mate Pavic _again_ \- but nobody on the team is overly excited about it.

They’re all trying to stay positive, but secretly Pierre’s not certain they’ll even be able to pull off _one_ of tomorrow’s singles matches, let alone both of them. He knows he’s awful for thinking it, and hates himself for it as much as the team would if he spoke it aloud. Still, he’s relatively certain they’re all on the same page here.

The irony doesn’t escape him. He spends half his life trying to make Nico believe in the impossible, and now he can’t even believe that the French team might win just two more matches. They’re a good team, but he’s just not sure they’re _take out Cilic and Coric_ good.

France will probably revoke his citizenship if he says that, though, so he keeps quiet.

He’s back at the hotel, alone in his and Nico’s suite while Nico picks up dinner. The plan had been to go out as a team, but after a long discussion nobody had been feeling it. They’re bringing out the big guns- and by _the big guns_ , Pierre means Lucas- for a probable opening match against Cilic tomorrow, and so Lucas had disappeared off to his room with the hopes of all of France on his shoulders.

Again.

Dinner plans had fallen apart fairly quickly after that; Richard and Benoit had followed Lucas to keep him company and, probably more prevalently, stop him fleeing the country in the middle of the night; Yannick had mentioned something about needing beauty sleep; and Jeremy and Jo… well, Pierre’s not actually sure where they ended up, but he figures they’re about equally as miserable as the rest of them.

Nico shows up with a pizza, which is hardly mid-tournament food, but it’s not like either of them have to play tomorrow. Correction; _probably_ neither of them have to play tomorrow. Pierre doesn’t envy Lucas’ position, but if Lucas wins his match, there’s a decent chance Pierre will be in it.

They’d settled on bringing out Lucas, but that still leaves the issue of who can play if Lucas pulls off the win. Jeremy won’t be able to play Coric again, and Jo isn’t nearly as injury-free yet as he’d like to be.

Amidst all the strategising, Richard had cut in with, “Pierre can play.”

Pierre had given him a spectacularly dirty look.

The only thing the team eventually agreed on was to decide in the morning, and Pierre’s felt a little like he might throw up ever since. Nico hadn’t said a word during the entire conversation, and Pierre isn’t sure what to make of his silence.

Now, though, they’re both sitting on the floor of their suite with a box of pizza open on the table between them, and Pierre feels a little less sick. Still, he doesn’t feel _good_ about any of this. “I don’t want to play,” he says after a long stretch of silence.

Nico swallows a bite of pizza, and then gets this thoughtful look on his face. “I know,” he says, his tone not giving anything away.

Pierre rushes to say, “I mean, I do want to play. But I also really, _really_ don’t.”

“I know,” repeats Nico.

Sometimes, Pierre knows what Nico’s feeling even better than he knows what he himself is feeling. Other times, though, Nico is so good at hiding his emotions and opinions that talking to him is about as fruitful as talking to a brick wall. This is one of those times, and Pierre sighs. “You didn’t say anything.”

Nico’s too busy eating to reply, but he lifts his eyebrows in question.

“When we were trying to plan tomorrow,” clarifies Pierre, absently picking an olive off a slice of pizza and flicking it onto Nico’s half. “Richard said I should play, and you didn’t say anything because you don’t think I can do it.”

Nico practically chokes on his food. He puts the pizza down, pushes it away, and fixes Pierre with a _look_. “Pierre,” he says, and Pierre feels bizarrely like he’s being admonished. “I think you can do anything you want.” He cracks a smile. “Best player in all of France, remember?”

Pierre does remember. It hasn’t even been a week since they filmed that interview, so every single nice thing Nico had said about him is still running on a loop through Pierre’s mind, but he also thinks he’s always going to remember it. Years from now, they’ll both be long retired and probably no longer in each other’s lives, and Pierre will still be thinking about every small kindness Nico has ever shown him.

The thought is like a rope around Pierre’s heart, and it gets tighter and tighter with every day that passes and Pierre doesn’t just talk about it. This _thing_ has been hanging around them for almost four years now, and Pierre thinks it’s almost ridiculous that he can play in however many Grand Slam finals without even a hint of nervousness, but he can’t just tell Nico that maybe he’d like to kiss him.

Okay, not maybe. Pierre would definitely like to kiss Nico.

“I think you should play,” says Pierre, changing the subject a little because responding directly to Nico will likely send them into a spiral of emotional depth that he’s decidedly not equipped to handle at the moment. “You’d win us the title for sure.”

Nico makes a face, like maybe he’s considering directing the conversation right back to where it had been heading a moment ago, but then he just smiles. “For sure,” he agrees. “Maybe I’ll tell Yannick I’m feeling confident to take on Cilic.”

Pierre smiles back. “I’ll be cheering you on,” he says. “And when you lose, I’ll buy you dinner to cheer you up.”

“Oh, it’ll take more than dinner,” argues Nico. “A bottle of wine, at least.”

“Anything for you,” says Pierre, amiable and genuine. He wonders if Nico realises just how much he means it. There’s very little that Nico couldn’t talk him into, and it’s a heavy feeling. He shakes the thought away by considering something Nico said a few days ago, in that fucking interview. “So, Tokyo.”

Nico’s being purposefully evasive when he replies, “Tokyo?” It’s as if he doesn’t know exactly what Pierre’s saying, as if it’s entirely inconsequential.

Pierre doesn’t want to push, but he’s just about pathologically incapable of leaving things be. He shrugs, trying to keep everything casual and light. “The last time we talked about Tokyo, you said you’d be retired before then,” he says, not making eye contact. “Has that changed? Because I feel like that’s probably something you should’ve told me.”

That doesn’t sound very casual or light, not even to Pierre’s ears, but Nico doesn’t seem to care. He presses his lips together, taking his time to respond, and Pierre focuses all his attention on not staring at Nico’s mouth- an endeavour he fails miserably at. “I want to play in Tokyo,” says Nico, finally, not noticing Pierre’s obvious distraction. “I want to play in Tokyo, _with you_.”

There’s a lump in Pierre’s throat that makes it hard for him to speak. “Well,” he forces out, and he feels warm all over. “I can beat that; I want to _win_ Tokyo. With you.”  

Nico smiles, and the warmth just keeps spreading.

 

-

 

As it is, they don’t nominate Pierre for a singles rubber, and he isn’t quite sure how to put into words that he’s somehow disappointed. It doesn’t matter, anyway; Lucas loses to Cilic.

A year ago, they won it in a blaze of glory, and now they’re just all burned out.

They’re in the locker room, and it’s a sorry scene. Lucas is crying, and they’re all taking their turns at attempting to comfort him; it’s Nico’s turn now, and Richard is surreptitiously managing to keep himself between them and the camera crew. Pierre’s off to the side, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“How ironic,” murmurs Richard, turning toward Pierre. He looks exhausted, which Pierre thinks is a little unfair of someone who hasn’t played at all this weekend, and he elaborates. “That you play without Nico last year and we win, and you play with him this year and we lose.”

Pierre doesn’t really know how to respond to that, and he fixes Richard with a look. “Is this your way of saying you want to play with me?” he asks, genuinely perplexed. “Because the answer is _no_.”

Richard snorts. “Please,” he says. “You talked more about Nico in that match than you did strategy.” He shrugs, turning away again. “I just think it’s funny.” Obviously, this is not at all obvious, because he has an unnervingly good poker face. It doesn’t matter; the exchange is apparently over.

Still, the words linger in Pierre’s mind. Not because he thinks he and Nico aren’t a good team- and even if he did, their three Slams would say otherwise- but because Richard’s right; he’d won without Nico, and lost with him. Pierre and Nico have lost plenty of matches together, but winning without Nico is something Pierre’s hardly allowed himself to consider over the past few years.

It hits Pierre suddenly that he isn’t worried about not being good without Nico; it’s that he doesn’t _want_ to be good without Nico.

Pierre’s thinking so intently about this that he doesn’t notice Nico and Richard have switched places until there’s a warm hand squeezing at his shoulder. He looks up into his friend’s achingly blue eyes, and he wants to smile but he’s so thoroughly exhausted that he can’t quite make his facial muscles cooperate. Nico’s grip shifts so his fingers brush against Pierre’s neck, and Pierre leans a little into the touch.

The camera crew seems to finally be getting bored of trying to film Lucas’ emotional breakdown-  well, they’re all having a bit of a breakdown, really, but it’s understandable that everyone’s focusing mostly on Lucas- and as soon as they turn away, Pierre can’t help himself.

“I love you,” he says plainly. He’s said this to Nico countless times, but it’s different this time; it feels like everything that’s been weighing him down since this whole thing began, back in Australia all those years ago, finally starts to lift. He reaches out and wraps an arm around Nico’s neck, pulling him close, and repeats himself. He’s a little breathless. “ _I love you_.”

Nico’s cheeks are a little wet as Pierre presses lingering kisses to both. He presses his forehead to Pierre’s, and Pierre lets out a long breath as his eyes squeeze shut. “I love you, too, Pierre,” says Nico, easily, like he doesn’t even have to stop and think about it. He sounds so sincere that it makes Pierre’s chest ache.

There’s more to be said, but now’s hardly the time for it; now it’s time to get _drunk_.

 

-

 

The off-season passes without incident. Nico stays in France and Pierre goes off on a- much needed, in his opinion- holiday. They keep in frequent contact; Pierre makes sure of it, sending off no less than five pictures a day in an attempt to make Nico regret turning down Pierre’s offer to come with him.

Pierre doesn’t think it works, but at least it’s an excuse for them to talk- not that they _need_ an excuse to talk, but Pierre won’t deny that it makes things easier. If their conversations have a clear topic, he can’t go off on a tangent about how Nico should take him on a date and then also possibly marry him. That would be awkward enough, but from however many miles away Pierre is right now? He’d rather die, honestly.

It’s at the end of December that things get interesting. They’ve mostly done their off-season training separately, and don’t start training together until they reunite in Australia. It’s hot, and Pierre’s twirling his racquet between his fingers as he watches from the sidelines while Nico smashes out serve after serve.

Pierre grins. He has a good feeling. “How about, for the next month, whoever hits the least aces each match has to buy dinner?”

Nico stops, and squints in Pierre’s direction. “Unfair,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his racquet. “You’ll just ace out all your service games and make fun of me for it later.”

“That’s good for us, though,” argues Pierre. He lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face, and pretends not to notice Nico pretending not to stare. “The more serves I hold, the more matches we win.” That’s logical, right? He can’t think properly with Nico’s lingering gaze on his torso.

It must make sense enough; Nico concedes. “Fine,” he says. “But whoever wins still has to buy the drinks.”

Pierre shrugs, knowing the addition doesn’t really mean anything. It’s not like they’ll be going crazy with the cocktails and the wine during the hectic Australian swing. Not until they lose, anyway, which Pierre isn’t particularly worried about.

That good feeling is stuck in his mind now, and it isn’t going away.

“Let’s start now,” he says, the words falling from his lips before he even has time to think about them. “I’m all practiced out for today. Dinner?”

Nico looks pointedly up at the very sunny sky, and then glances at his watch. “It’s barely even three yet,” he says, but he doesn’t seem too against the suggestion because he’s already moving off the court and toward Pierre. “But I could eat.”

“Lunch,” says Pierre, but his triumphant grin turns into a frown after a moment of thought. “No, we’ve already had lunch. What’s it called when you have brunch, but in the afternoon?”

There’s a look from Nico that Pierre can’t decipher, but then Nico’s smiling so Pierre figures it probably doesn’t matter. “It’s _food_ , Pierre,” he says, one arm falling across Pierre’s shoulders. “What does it matter what we call it? You’re buying.”

Fair enough, so Pierre doesn’t argue as he burns under Nico’s touch.

 

-

 

They’ve predictably missed the lunch rush, and find a practically empty restaurant downtown. At a secluded booth in the back, they sit next to each other like an old married couple, and Pierre is too distracted thinking about the way Nico’s throat had just moved when taking a sip of water to hear what Nico’s saying to him.

“Sorry,” he says after a moment, dragging his gaze up from Nico’s neck. Not that making eye contact is much better; there’s a flush spreading across Pierre’s cheeks, and he knows Nico won’t miss it. “What did you say?”

Sure enough, there’s an understanding glint in Nico’s eyes. Pierre’s fairly certain that Nico _knows_ , that maybe Nico’s known for a while. It’s not like Pierre’s made an effort to really hide his feelings; he doesn’t talk about them, maybe, but they’re no big secret either. Half of their conversations end with him on the verge of getting all sappy and declaring his undying love, and surely Nico’s capable of filling in the blanks.

Still, Nico doesn’t comment on Pierre’s obvious preoccupation. He just tilts a corner of his mouth up in half a smile, and easily repeats himself. “I asked if you were ready to order.”

Pierre’s embarrassment deepens as he realises there’s a waitress with a perfunctory smile standing with a pen at the ready. He’d been so focused on Nico he hadn’t even noticed her there. “Just the, uh, chicken salad,” he says without putting any thought into it, hoping she hasn’t been waiting for long. She just nods and wanders away, sending their orders off with startling efficiency.

Gratefully, Nico doesn’t point out the obvious fact that Pierre loudly and frequently complains that salad shouldn’t be considered a meal on its own. He takes another sip of his water, and Pierre forces himself to avert his gaze because he is _not_ about to repeat his earlier mistake barely a minute later.

“I think we’re about to have a really good year,” says Nico. He seems spectacularly sure of himself, which is both refreshing and wonderful.

Pierre grins. “I _know_ we’re about to have a really good year,” he says. He almost wants to toast to that, but it’s the middle of the afternoon and even if it wasn’t, drinking when they’re so deep in preparation for the new season is never a good idea. Settling for reaching over and squeezing Nico’s thigh, he adds, “It’s always a good year with you.”

This seems to snap something inside Nico, who lets out a very long sigh and shifts so he and Pierre are directly facing each other. His eyes are clear and bright and beautiful. “Are you _ever_ going to get over yourself and just ask me on a date?” he asks. “Because it feels like I’ve been waiting decades for you, and I’m hardly getting any younger.”

The words hang in the- rather small, realises Pierre- space between them, and Pierre blinks in surprise before he feels a slow grin spread across his face. “Oh?” he says, and then gestures vaguely around them. “Is this not a date? If not, I guess I’ll have to cancel the wedding plans.”

Nico just stares at him for a minute. “You’re impossible,” he says, but the words are ruined only a moment later as he closes the already small distance between them and finally, after years of Pierre’s wanting, kisses Pierre.

It’s such a breathtakingly brilliant sensation that Pierre can’t think straight, but isn’t that exactly how a kiss is supposed to be? He lets his fingers trail up Nico’s arm and, after a brief pause to squeeze at the firm muscle underneath his shirt, drags them all the way up to knot in Nico’s hair.

Pierre’s mouth slides open under Nico’s, and he swallows the sound of the small, helpless moan he’s rewarded with. This might be the greatest moment of Pierre’s life- an impressive achievement, considering he’s a three-time Grand Slam champion- and the feel of Nico’s hands coming up to gently cup his face is almost too much for him.

There’s a part of Pierre that thinks he could sit there and do this forever. Most of him thinks that, actually, and he’s not sure how long they spend making out, but it must be a while because he doesn’t even think about stopping until they’re interrupted by a polite cough.

The waitress is back with their food. She slides the plates onto the table, and he refuses to look at her as she does so. Nico thanks her cheerfully, and Pierre glances up just in time to catch her winking at them as she walks off again.

“And _that's_  why I never leave the hotel,” he says once she’s gone.

Nico raises his eyebrows. “Because otherwise you get caught making out with guys in restaurants?” He sounds rather sceptical, which Pierre doesn’t think is fair; he could _totally_ be making out with different guys in all the different cities they visit. Everyone else does it.

Pierre doesn’t say that, though. “It’s been known to happen,” he instead answers vaguely, and isn’t able to keep the smile off his face and out of his voice. In fact, he’s relatively sure he’ll never stop smiling again. “Only with guys I really like, though.”

There’s not even a beat of hesitation before Nico replies. “I really like you, too,” he says, and he’s not even looking at Pierre, but Pierre still feels a little like his heart might give out at any moment.

They eat, and that’s that.

 

-

 

Melbourne, true to form, is hotter than hell. Pierre and Nico spend as much time as they can get away with holed up in their hotel room, mostly for the air-conditioning but also a little for the convenience of being alone. Okay, maybe more than a little for the privacy, because they probably couldn’t do this in public.

Pierre’s grip on the sheet tightens as Nico’s mouth moves between his legs. They’ve done a lot of this in the past few weeks, and it’s almost embarrassing how quickly Pierre comes whenever Nico touches him.

Not really, though, because Pierre’s become equally adept at getting Nico off in turn.

He pushes up onto his elbows and glances down at Nico. It’s an effort to move, and an even bigger effort to keep his eyes open and stop his head from falling back, but it’s worth it for the sight that greets him; Nico’s lips wrapped around his cock, his eyes smiling and his hair sticking up from where Pierre’s been running his hands through it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, breathless and a little helpless. He doesn’t get the chance to say anything else because he’s coming a second later, groaning and falling back against the bed.

Nico just kneels there and watches him for a moment, but then he’s crawling along Pierre’s body and holding himself up as he drops kisses on Pierre’s neck and jaw and, once Pierre’s coherent enough to register what’s going on, his mouth. “I think good sex is the key to good tennis,” he says, grinning a little.

Pierre laughs, and his voice is hoarse when he speaks. “Lucky us,” he says, sliding a hand down and between their bodies. His thumb brushes against the tip of Nico’s cock as he starts teasing. “We’ll never lose another match.”

They’d won a match just a few hours ago, and now they’re into the quarterfinals. Pierre really, truly wants to win. Conquering Nico _and_ the last Slam standing in the one month would be a dream come true- literally, in fact, because he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about Nico fucking him in the locker room after they _finally_ win here at the Australian Open.

It’s not long before Nico’s coming, and he collapses against Pierre’s chest. He goes to roll off, but Pierre hooks a leg around his hips to keep him there. “I adore you,” says Pierre softly, pressing their cheeks together, and then he takes Nico’s earlobe lightly between his teeth just to feel Nico shudder against him.

Nico retaliates by pinching one of Pierre’s nipples and letting his nails drag across Pierre’s chest, leaving faint marks that Pierre hopes never fade. He retaliates verbally, too, as his mouth hovers by Pierre’s ear. “I love you,” he murmurs.

They’re both completely naked, and yet it’s _this_ that makes Pierre blush and stumble over his words as he tries to return the sentiment. He says it messily about three separate times before he gives up entirely, and sighs. “Happy birthday,” he chokes out after, and decides he might just never speak again.

Nico just laughs. “I’ve definitely had worse birthdays,” he says, light and casual as he finally disentangles himself from Pierre and rolls to the other side of the bed and onto his back.

Pierre turns onto his side to look at him suspiciously. “Have you had better?”

“Yeah, my eleventh was pretty good.”

Pierre hits him with a pillow.

 

-

 

The final is played in front of a packed, lively crowd- Australia never disappoints in that regard, or at all- and Pierre’s serving for it at 5-4 in the third. No pressure or anything, which is exactly what Nico had said a few moments ago when Pierre double faulted on match point, but oddly enough, Pierre is feeling _a whole lot of pressure_ right now.

It’s okay. They still have another match point, and he actually manages a first serve for what feels like the first time in this entire set. The next few shots are a little blurry, in all honesty, but then Pierre and Nico are both back near the baseline, and Melo and Kubot are charging the net, and Nico- brilliant, _brilliant_ Nico- lobs the ball right over their heads.

The crowd jumps to their feet, and Nico falls to his back. Pierre’s yelling but is only vaguely aware of this and has no clue what he’s actually saying as he pulls Nico up and into his arms. He presses kisses to every inch of Nico’s face, laughing a little at the salty taste of Nico’s tears. “We did it!” he cries, gleeful and triumphant. “Nico, _we did it!”_

Nico’s laughing, too. “Why are you so surprised?” he asks. “You always said we would.”

That’s a good point, but it doesn’t make the moment any less euphoric.

 

-

 

Much, much later, they’re finally alone.

Pierre’s dragging his thumb along the palm of Nico’s hand. He’s a little- okay, a lot- drunk. “Now we’ll _have_ to win the Finals this year,” he says sleepily. He rests his head on Nico’s shoulder, closes his eyes. “There’s nothing left for us to do.”

“Untrue,” says Nico, freeing his hand from Pierre’s grasp just so he can wrap an arm around Pierre’s back and grab at his hip instead. “We’ve still got Tokyo.”

The words wash away all of Pierre’s exhaustion, and he suddenly feels like he could play another Slam final right then. “We’ve still got Tokyo,” he agrees, almost giddy, and then groans as he looks up at Nico. “I don’t think you’ve ever been as hot as you are right now.”

Nico shakes his head a little, but he’s smiling. “Bed?” he asks, capturing Pierre’s mouth in a light kiss before Pierre can respond.

The kiss quickly deepens, and Pierre whines in protest as Nico breaks it off to stand up. He grins, though, when Nico tangles their fingers together and pulls him to his feet as well. “Bed,” he agrees, nodding enthusiastically.

**Author's Note:**

> pls validate me


End file.
